


Incredibly Poor Self-Preservation Skills: the Alexander Story

by taylor_tut



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Bisexual Alexander Hamilton, Could be platonic, M/M, OR IS IT, One-Sided Attraction, Pining, Sick Alexander, Sick Character, Sickfic, alex might be bi, but here we are, god it feels so fucking weird to write a fic where george washington walks in like, if you take jefferson's line about wanting to sleep with alex as a joke lmao, jefferson is bi, oh hey whaddup, only ambiguously jamilton, sick hamilton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-24 03:20:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14346912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taylor_tut/pseuds/taylor_tut
Summary: Another one for whump bingo: when Eliza is out visiting her father, Alexander gets sick and comes to a debate anyway. Thomas Jefforson decides to make sure he doesn't die.





	Incredibly Poor Self-Preservation Skills: the Alexander Story

**Author's Note:**

> Hamilton fic! My first Hamilton fic! I’ve never written for it before, so tell me if i fuck up the character voices :)

“Alexander,” Washington barked, startling Alex to attention. He had resigned to the fact that his eyes weren’t going to stay open through the whole debate, but he thought that maybe no one would notice if he nodded every so often. He wasn’t sure when his head had bobbed down so far that his chin was resting on the table in front of him. 

“Alexander, would you like to join the conversation, or would you rather have a nap?” Washington asked, clearly nonplussed by his inattention. 

“Sorry, Sir,” Alex apologized, rubbing aggressively at his eyes. “I’m listening.” 

“You need to do more than listen,” Washington said, “I need your input.”

“I--” Alex broke off, muffling a cough in his sleeve-- “I apologize. Not sure where my head is today.”

Washington sighed, taking pity on the kid. He was clearly not feeling his best, and Eliza was visiting her father with the children. “Let’s take a short recess,” he suggested, softer this time. “Collect our thoughts. We can reconvene in ten minutes.” 

With a heavy sigh, Alex stood, immediately having to steady himself with one hand on the table. 

Washington swallowed the lecture he’d come over to give. 

“Are you feeling well, Alexander?” he asked, his voice softening in the way that it only ever did when speaking to Martha’s grandchildren and Alexander. “You’re not yourself.”

Alex plastered on a confident smile. “Fine, Sir,” he lied, “just a bit tired.”

Washington looked concerned, which was exactly what Alex was trying to avoid. “Eliza’s out of town, is she not?” 

“She is,” he admitted, knowing where the conversation would go from here. ‘Are you eating? Are you sleeping? Or are you writing?’ [1]

Before Washington could get another word in edgewise, Alex pushed past him with a mumbled, “sorry, I’ve got something to take care of.”

Jefferson wasn’t a natural worrier. In fact, quite the opposite: he prided himself on nonchalance and being the last to panic in any situation. It allowed him to keep a cool head in hot situations.

The one person who could really bring out the mother hen in him was Alexander Hamilton. 

He’d noticed when Hamilton had come in looking exhausted, which wasn’t abnormal for him, with his hair unbrushed and his clothes rumpled, which wasn’t unusual for any man when his wife was out of town.

But never, no matter how little sleep he’d gotten or how rushed he’d been, had Thomas seen him anything less than ruthlessly aggressive in debate. Particularly when they were discussing what they were discussing today--one of the articles he’d authored within the Federalist Papers. He’d considered bringing a muzzle to ensure Alex didn’t bite, but he wasn’t even barking. 

Jefferson watched him brush past Washington, looking like a teenage girl angry at her dad, and to the corner of the room to sit and stare intently at some paper. 

Perplexed, Thomas sauntered over to that side of the room and peeked over Alex’s shoulder at the essay he was studying so intently--one which was in no way shape or form relevant to this discussion. And he was shaking.

“Can I help you, Jefferson?” Alex asked without turning around. 

“I don’t think you can,” he muttered. “What are you even doing here?”

Alex huffed out a laugh, clearly not pleased by that question. “Debating,” he replied, “and yourself?”

Thomas rolled his eyes at the snark. “Yeah? And just what are you debating?” 

Alex looked angry but decidedly confused. “Same thing all of us are,” he answered vaguely.

“I’ve yet to hear you speak a word about what that is.”

“Isn’t there anything more useful you could be doing in the recess than badgering me? Reviewing speech notes or something?”

This time, Thomas frowned. “I… already spoke, Hamilton,” he said confusedly. 

Alex glared at the floor. “Oh, right.” 

“Are you feeling alright?” he asked, genuinely concerned for the first time. He’d known the guy was exhausted, but not THIS out of it.

Alex pressed his thumbs to his eyes and breathed slowly through his nose, like a bull preparing to lunge, or someone who was trying not to pass out. If Jefferson had one guess, he’d place his money on the latter.

“Just fine,” Alex grumbled, “now will you leave?”

Deciding that boundaries were for the weak, Jefferson sat down firmly in front of Alex, too close, their knees touching, and looked him straight in the eyes.

Alex huffed an annoyed sigh. “Fine,” he caved, “I’ll leave, then.”

But he didn’t get that far. 

As soon as he stood up, his eyes went glazed, and he wavered just as he had when he’d stood before, but this time, he wasn’t righting himself.

“Alexander?” Jefferson called, trying to get his attention. 

“D’zzy,” Alex slurred, his own voice sounding far away and Thomas’ sounding like it was coming from above water in which he was drowning below. 

“Hey!” Thomas shouted, lunging out to grab Alex before he could hit the ground. He eased his fall and sat him up against the wall behind him, slapping his face to try to rouse him. “Alex, Alex; wakey wakey,” he muttered, tapping his cheeks.

“What happened?” Washington’s voice boomed from behind him. He was a stoic man who tended to sound angry even when he was simply concerned. “Did you hit him?”

It wasn’t an absurd question. 

“No, of course not,” Jefferson rolled his eyes, “he just went down. Kid looked terrible.” 

Washington frowned, then pressed the back of his hand to Alex’s cheeks, his neck, his forehead. 

“Oh,” he whispered, “shit.”  Jefferson reached out to feel for himself and grimaced. He’d expected a fever, but not quite that high. 

Alex groaned, his eyes fluttering as he tried to wake up.

“Come on, son, easy,” Washington said softly.

His eyes slowly focused on Jefferson’s in front of him. He looked confused.

“Uh… Alexander?” Jefferson prompted. “How’re you feeling?”

He blinked sluggishly, listing over again so that Jefferson had to steady him once more. “Dizzy,” he said again, echoing his complaint from before he’d fainted.

“Yeah, still?” Jefferson asked gently.

“You need to go home,” Washington commanded.

“And do what? Die privately?” Jefferson couldn’t help but snap. “Sir,” he amended under a glare. “His wife is out of town.”

Washington considered for a moment, then broke into the grin of someone who knew very well the shit they were about to stir up and was excited to watch it play out.

“Well, you live very near here, don’t you, Thomas?”

With a bit of help from various men of the state, Alex was situated in a horse-drawn cart next to Thomas only minutes later. 

“Why are you pouting?” Jefferson asked. Alex startled, turning away.

“I’m not.”

Thomas smirked. “Oh, you are,” he accused. “What, not happy about coming home with me?” He sort of wished that didn’t sting, but crushes always did, no matter how hopeless they were. 

“Not thrilled about it,” Alex admitted.

He rolled his eyes. “You’re welcome, for hosting you in my own home until your wife, who would be a widow by the end of the week if you were left to your own devices, can come nurse your sorry ass back to health.” At least Alex had the good sense to look sheepish, his face flushing pink--but maybe that was the fever. 

“Right,” he said. Nothing else, but it was genuine--no sarcasm, no animosity. It just was what it was. That could be enough.

He was silent for the rest of the relatively short ride to Thomas’ home, save for frequent, rattling coughs. 

“Have you seen a doctor about that?” Thomas asked, already knowing the answer even before Alex shook his head. 

What he didn’t expect was for Alex to rub his chest with a pained grimace and mumble, “it wasn’t this bad yesterday.”

“You’re both the smartest kid I’ve ever met,” Jefferson said, “and a bumbling idiot.” 

Alex smiled a little. “Hey, that’s why we get married, right?” 

Thomas bit his lip and said nothing.

The carriage came to a stop in front of a townhouse so massive that Alex’s eyes went wide.

“This is where you live?” Alex asked in awe. 

“Only when I’m here in Monticello,” he replied nonchalantly. “When I’m visiting elsewhere, it’s usually little hostels and inns.” 

“Still, my God,” Alex muttered, something between impressed and irritated. 

Jefferson was already climbing out of the carriage and opening Alex’s door for him before he was finished complaining. 

“Well, are you going to get out, or would you like to spend the rest of the day with whomever this fine gentleman,” he gestured to the driver, “is supposed to pick up next?”

“Probably better company than you are,” Alex grumbled, stepping down out of the carriage nevertheless. Upright, things spun again. “Ooh,” he breathed, reaching blindly for Thomas to steady him, which he did by gripping him by the waist and supporting under his arm. He pulled him in close enough to feel the fever pouring off him.

“We’ll go slow,” he reassured, taking only the snail-paced baby steps that Alex could manage without falling over.

He was flushed and winded by the time they reached the front door. 

“Thomas, I’ve gotta--need’a sit,” he warned, the faraway look overtaking his eyes once more. 

“Almost there,” Thomas replied, “hang on one moment.” He threw open the door and tried to get Alex as far as a dining room chair, but he made it clear he wasn’t going to make it that far and dropped to his knees holding his head as soon as the door closed behind them.

Teasing aside, Alex looked bad. The haughty pride was seemingly now second to just the effort it took to remaining conscious, which was worrying. 

“I’m gonna send for a doctor,” Thomas told him. “You clearly need to be checked over.” 

Alex didn’t agree or argue. Instead, he weakly asked for a glass of water.

Jefferson wasted no time fetching it for him, then helping him hold it steady when his trembling hands threatened to spill it all over his lap.

“You’ve really got it bad,” Jefferson noted as Alex drank. “You look miserable.” 

Alex groaned. 

“Think you’re ready to stand again?” he asked. “Just for a minute, to get you to bed.”

Standing sounded awful, but a bed sounded like a potentially worthwhile payoff. He considered it until Thomas pulled him to his feet, making the choice for him. “Up we go,” he strained, taking on most of Alex’s weight and guiding him to a nearby bedroom.

It was well-furnished, and most strikingly, the bed was unmade.

“This is… your room?” Alex asked. He sounded dazed and half-conscious, but at least he had the wherewithal to be uncomfortable sleeping in Thomas’ bed. Priorities.

“Well, unless you’d like to walk upstairs to the guest rooms, this is going to have to do,” he snarked. 

Alex laid on top of the blankets, shivering.

“Come on,” Jefferson chastised, rolling his eyes, “don’t be a prude. I won’t tell your wife you laid in one other than your marital bed. Although,” he winked, “you clearly have a type.”

Alex snorted. “Oh yeah? What would that be?”

“Smart, charming, gorgeous; need I go on?”

He rolled his eyes. “Trying to make a move on my wife, Jefferson?”

Thomas smiled deviously. “I’d snatch up either one of you, really,” he said. 

Alex blinked in surprise, then decided it was the fever making him hear things and shook his head to clear the fuzziness from it. Well, Thomas thought, at least he probably wouldn’t remember this later, and if he did, he could play it off as a fever dream.

“I’m going to go find someone to fetch the doctor,” Jefferson said, “and get you some food, since I’m guessing that you haven’t had a proper meal since Eliza left?”

The intonation would imply it was a question, but they both knew it wasn’t. 

“You get some sleep,” he said. “Some real sleep. No thinking about financial plans, or bills that need passing, or papers that need writing. In fact,” Thomas added, reaching into his desk drawer and fishing around, “I’m taking away all the paper and ink. So since there’s no way you’ll remember anything well enough to write it down later with a fever like that, I suggest you don’t even think about congress. Got it?”

“Are you always this bossy?”

He smirked. “Only to people who need bossing around,” he replied. “Rest, okay? You’ll feel better when you wake up. Come get me if you need something.”

Alex nodded, watching him walk away and waiting until his hand was on the doorknob to stop him. 

“Thomas.” he called, not waiting for him to turn around to blurt out a rushed “thank you; you didn’t have to help me and I know you hate me but I appreciate this.”

“I don’t hate you,” Jefferson clarified, “and don’t mention it. Just recover so I can go back to beating you in the courtroom without feeling like I’m kicking a wounded puppy.”

Alex nodded and rolled over, caving and bringing the covers up to his chin. Well, at least congress was the furthest thing from his mind right now.

  
  
  


References: [1]: mood


End file.
